


Crescendo

by Desade



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desade/pseuds/Desade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've finally started those piano lessons you've always wanted...but your teacher isn't -quite- what you'd imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crescendo

  1. You fidgeted in your seat as your Economics professor droned on and on, considering the fact that you had a classic love/hate relationship with Fridays. This was partly due to the deathly boring class you now suffered through, but also could be attributed to your fast approaching piano lesson. You dearly loved learning how to coax beautiful music from the ivory keys, but your frustration levels had been off the charts since you started. And it was all due to Mister Hiddleston.

You had hurried to your first day of lessons, nearly giddy with excitement. You’d wanted to learn to play ever since you were a small child and now you finally had your chance. As you took the ancient elevator to the top floor of the music department, you daydreamed about your teacher, imagining him some wizened old man in a cardigan. He would be demanding, but not too severe, and he would push your limits and mold you into a great performer. In your mind, you saw yourself playing some great concert hall, and as the final note echoed into nothing, the audience would erupt into applause, and your teacher would rise from his front row seat and throw a bouquet of roses at your feet. You would meet his eyes, and he would shine a proud smile as he gave you a satisfied nod, acknowledging a job well done.

Exiting the elevator, you nearly ran to the room at the end of the hall and burst through the door, overflowing with exuberance. “Hello! I’m here,” you had sung out, before falling completely silent as the tall, slim man that stood near the piano turned to face you. You were rendered speechless as he smiled widely. This was not the aged and stooped teacher you had envisioned. This was a lean, gorgeous man, with sparkling eyes, perfect dark blonde curls, and a beautifully tailored black suit. And he seemed rather pleased to see you.

“Yes, you certainly are,” he had laughed. “And what an _entrance_! It’s nice to have an eager student for a change!” Placing the sheet music he had been holding atop the piano, he strode toward you, drawing your attention to his incredibly long legs. “I am Mr. Hiddleston, but feel free to call me Tom, if you wish. I don’t mind a bit.” Stopping in front of you, he had enveloped your own slim hands in his surprisingly large ones and raising them for inspection. You had tilted your head back and watched his face, emotions flickering across rapidly as he spread and stroked your fingers. “Your reach is a little small,” he murmured, almost to himself, “but we can improve upon that with the proper conditioning. Squeeze my hands, please?” You did as directed, and he flashed that brilliant smile again. “Good finger strength! Oh, yes. I will be able to work wonders with you, I think.”

You had smiled in return, his joy infectious, and resolutely tried to ignore the immediate attraction you had felt from first sight. Tom had dropped your hands then and ushered you to the piano bench, beginning his introductory speech as you seated yourself.

That had been six weeks ago, and every time you met, the lust you felt for this perfect man just seemed to grow. It was maddening, really. You had wanted nothing more than to learn to play, and yet all you seemed capable of memorizing was the image of Tom. The way his hands splayed across the keys, or how the waistcoats he seemed to favor worked to emphasis his lean frame. You had had to excuse yourself momentarily during week three as he demonstrated the proper usage of the foot pedals; the image of his thighs flexing rhythmically had nearly been your undoing. Upon your return to the music room, face still mildly flushed, you had tried to focus on the lesson, on anything other than him, but it had been pointless. And you couldn’t help but notice the appraising glances Tom kept sending your way, making you worry that he knew exactly what you were thinking.

You glanced at the clock, seeing that there were still five minutes remaining in the lecture. Five minutes before you had to gather your things and face another 90 minutes alone with the object of your frustration. You idly wondered what suit he would be wearing that day, hoping it was the black one again, as that was your favourite. It really emphasized what a wonderful build he had. “Stop, stop, stop,” you muttered to yourself. “I’m not even there yet, and already you’re torturing me. Thanks, brain!” The last few minutes of class were consumed with trying to compose yourself, all to no avail, and upon your dismissal, you slowly stood up, collected your bag and headed toward your doom.

Entering the music building, you decided to bypass the elevator and hike up the three flights of stairs, hoping to work off a bit of nervous energy. But upon opening the door to the room, you knew it had been pointless. Tom was wearing that damned black suit. Complete with waistcoat and white button down shirt. He was seated at the bench, back to you, swaying slightly as his hands ran across the keys. The notes of Chopin, solid and sure, echoed beautifully through the room. You waited, watching until he was done before announcing your presence.

“Sorry I’m late,” you called as you crossed the room. “I took the stairs.”

He turned slightly and smiled at you over one shoulder, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ah, I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come. Is the elevator out of order again?”

“No. I-I just felt the need for some exercise,” you stated weakly, caught in his blue-green gaze.

The look he gave you was mischievous. “Had some excess energy to burn off before we started, eh? I hope you didn’t tax yourself too much, love, because I plan on working you hard today.”

His words nearly stopped your heart, while sending a jolt down your spine in the same instant. You grinned in return, fighting to act natural as you answered, “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Tom.”

“Good. Shall we get started? Come, sit,” he said, patting the bench. You dropped your bag and crossed to the piano, tucking your skirt beneath you before taking your place next to him.

You began, as always, with a few warming up exercises. Things seemed to be going smoothly until Tom unbuttoned his cuffs and started rolling his sleeves up, exposing his forearms. Immediately you lost focus and missed an easy transition, hitting several keys at once. “Sorry,” you murmured, eyes downcast.

Tom frowned at you. “Where is your concentration, darling?”

“I don’t know,” you answered, frustration evident in your voice. “I didn’t have any trouble with that _last_ week!”

“Have you been practicing, as instructed?”

“Yes,” you replied miserably.

Tom stood and moved to the other side of the piano. “Again,” he directed. “Let me watch from a bit more distance, and see where the problem lies.”

You began the piece again, hyper-aware of his eyes sweeping over you, checking your form and posture. Tom began to pace around, gaze locked on you, and within moments you were again distracted, this time by the way the waistcoat shifted slightly as he moved. You winced at the sour notes you produced, embarrassed by your lack of skill.

“I think I see the problem,” Tom said slowly.

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No, just a few tweaks that are needed,” he replied, stalking back around to stand behind you. Without warning he pressed one large hand low on your back, and brought the other to the center of your chest, just above your cleavage. You gasped at the contact, feeling the heat of his fingers against your skin. “Your posture needs work. Arch your lower back just so. Your spine should be centered just forward of your hips.” He pressed against your chest lightly, balancing you properly, and as he did so, you rocked forward a bit, pressing your center to the bench. Biting back a small moan, you wriggled slightly, feeling a blush rise in your face.

Tom was silent for a moment, and then pulled his hands from your body. “Scoot forward a bit, darling. I need to sit behind you for this next part.” You slid forward, maintaining your posture, driving your teeth into your lower lip at the slight friction caused by your motion. Tom eased onto the bench behind you, legs splayed wide on either side of your hips. He brought his arms around and placed his palms under your wrists. “Now,” he said, the rumble of his voice close to your ear. “Keep your forearms straight, wrists as limber as possible to avoid any tension. Don’t think about anything other than the notes. Forget I am even here and play.”

Your body was on fire with Tom pressed so tightly to your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, smelling that brisk cologne he wore. There was no way you could do this, no possible way to ignore his thighs framing your own, or the heat of his hands on your wrists. But you would try. You would try because he had asked, he believed you could do it, and you did not want to disappoint.

“Why the hesitation, love,” he asked, warm breath washing against your ear. “Are you doubting yourself?”

“Maybe just a little,” you admitted, forcing yourself to keep the tremor from your voice.

“Well, don’t. You can do this. And if you perform well…I shall reward you in equal measure.”

You swallowed hard, nodded, and focused only on the sheet of music open before you. You ignored the heat of him at your back, ignored the promised reward, and began to play, letting the music flow through you. Tom corrected your hand placement only once, with a slight press of his palm against your wrist. You blocked out even that, losing yourself in the music you were channeling, rocking slightly in time with the melody, hips moving in small circles. Almost before you knew it, the last note sounded, and you had made it through without a single error.

“Bravo, darling! You did it,” Tom growled in your ear, raising goose bumps all up and down your spine. “And now, for your well earned reward.” His right hand left your wrist and swept your hair aside, allowing him to press his lips to your neck. You voiced a small gasp as he kissed his way up your throat before nipping your earlobe gently. “You do want this, correct? You want me? Tell me if you don’t, darling, before I go too far. I don’t think I’m mistaken, though.”

“You’re not,” you moaned, rocking back against him, head laid back on his shoulder.

“I knew I wasn’t,” Tom chuckled. “The way you’ve been watching me these past few weeks made your interest very clear.” He gripped your chin lightly and turned your face, pressing his lips to yours. You returned the kiss eagerly, tongue sliding into Tom’s mouth as you brought your right hand up to grip in his dark blonde curls. Your left hand dropped from the keyboard to rest on his thigh, stroking gently up and down the length, marveling at the muscle tone in his lean legs. Tom mirrored your actions, dragging his fingertips up the inside of your left thigh. You moaned into his mouth, squirming on the piano bench, the fire between your legs growing by the minute. He hesitated slightly when he reached the silk covered heat of your cunt, and then cupped you fully, fingers pressing deliciously at you through the material.

You deepened the kiss, feeling your lips swell under the pressure, and scraped your teeth over his lower lip. Tom’s hand slowly moved against your center, rubbing delicately, teasing a whine from between your lips. You rocked your hips forward, pressing yourself more firmly into his grasp, and he hummed appreciatively. Grinding down against him, you whimpered as he once more mouthed your neck, kissing and biting a heated path down to your shoulder. As you swiveled your hips, you became aware of Tom’s arousal pressed insistently against you. Without another thought you levered yourself up, turned around and straddled him, knees digging into the hard surface of the piano bench. You snugged yourself down, grinding your cunt into his lap, tearing a moan from deep in his chest. With a quick motion, you stripped off your top, flinging it aside, and leaned in to kiss him deeply, your hardened nipples rubbing against the scratchy material of his waistcoat.

Tom’s hands gripped your ass, kneading and rubbing your flesh as he bumped his hips up against you. You gasped, and rode him, arms wound round his neck. With a growl, he surged up, knocking the bench over backward and with two quick strides, carried you to the side of the piano, laying you atop it on your back. His slender hands slid up your thighs, under your skirt and grasped your silk panties, tugged them down your legs. Leaning in, Tom pressed his mouth to your inner thigh, kissing and licking his way higher as you hooked your legs over his shoulders. The cool, smooth wood of the piano pressed against your back, and you brought your hands up to cup your breasts as he moved ever closer to your center. Reaching the juncture of your thighs, he nuzzled your curls, pressing a quick kiss to your mound before swiping his tongue against your aching cunt.

You bucked and wailed, already on the verge of coming. Tom’s hands went to your hips, gripping tightly as he swirled his tongue around your clit, groaning at the taste of you, heavy in his mouth. You panted, trembling under his touch, and feeling all coherent thought slipping away in the blaze of feeling between your legs. With a final flick of his tongue, your orgasm crashed down, your back arching up off the piano, heels digging into Tom’s back. You loosed a guttural cry, hands squeezing your breasts, thumbs rubbing across your nipples as waves of pleasure radiated out from your core.

Tom pulled back, his hands leaving your hips to struggle with his belt. Freeing himself from that, he made quick work of the button and zipper on his trousers, shoving them down just far enough to free his cock. You pushed yourself upright, sliding to the very edge of the piano and wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Reaching down, you slipped your fingers around his impressive girth and caught his eye, maintaining his gaze as you guided him into you. His mouth sagged open as he pushing into your sopping center, feeling your heat constrict around his length.

You slid your hand into his curls and pulled his ear down to your mouth. “Fuck me, Thomas,” you cooed, feeling his body tremble against you.

“Gladly,” he groaned, his hips beginning to piston. “My god, darling, you feel so good wrapped around me.”

You slid one hand to his waist, holding him as he moved against you, the other remaining deep in his curls. Tom’s head was bowed, watching as his cock slipped in and out of your body, glistening with your arousal. You took the opportunity to run your tongue around the shell of his ear before nipping at the soft skin of his throat. His breathing was becoming ragged as he rutted into you, the friction growing unbearable. You rolled your hips, urging him on, begging now in a low, husky voice.

“Harder, Thomas. I’m so close, and I want you to make me come again. Make me scream. “

“I’m not going to last much longer if you keep talking like that, love,” he rasped through gritted teeth.

“I don’t care,” you panted. “I want you to come inside of me; fill me up.”

Tom growled low in his throat and pushed you back onto the piano, untwining your legs from around his waist and bending them back, opening you like a flower. You stared up into his lust-stricken face, teeth bared in a snarl as he thrust violently into you, the motion rocking the instrument on its wide set legs. Your hands scrabbled on the polished wood, seeking some sort of purchase and finding none.

You felt your orgasm uncurling and begged him to fuck you, break you, fill you. Tom’s hips slammed into you, and he threw his head back, voicing a long moan before commanding you to come, come for him, right fucking now, because he was going to ruin you, darling, and he wanted you clamped down around him whilst he did so. You tensed, then broke, keening your release as Tom cursed and spilled inside you at nearly the same instant, washing your inner walls with his burning release. Your hips rocked, milking him dry as he collapsed over you and captured your mouth in a long, lingering kiss. When he finally pulled back, he smiled down at you, eyes glazed with satisfaction.

“Now that’s a performance that would’ve made Mozart blush, darling.”

“Yes,” you grinned. “And who would’ve thought I’d become so inventive on the piano after only six weeks?”





End file.
